


Making Up for Mondays

by inksheddings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inksheddings/pseuds/inksheddings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has become rather fond of Mars, Inc.'s mostly nonsensical words of psuedo-wisdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Up for Mondays

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 5.14 - "My Bloody Valentine"
> 
> Yep, I did my research. It was quite tasty. The title is part of this quote: "Chocolate is nature's way of making up for Mondays." Unbeta'd, but thanks to MidniteMarauder for letting me bug her about a few things during chat.

Sam eventually got out of the panic room. Tired, feeling like an entire convoy of trucks had run him down, but out he got. It hadn't actually been quite as bad as the first time he'd been stuck in there, which was a slight relief, but then one look at Dean and he felt worse than ever.

Sam had heard some of what Famine had said to his brother, as blood-drunk as he'd been, but it didn't really sink in until he saw how worn and pale Dean was now. Like he'd been right there in front of that convoy with Sam. Cas kept looking back and forth between the two of them, like he couldn't decide which one of them he should stick closer to. At least he didn't seem to have carried any of his all too human hamburger cravings to heart, now that he was back to "normal."

They decided to hang at Bobby's for a couple of days, maybe try and find some regular sort of hunt to keep them occupied and get them back on a more even keel. Sam was good with this plan, and even better with Dean handing him the keys to the Impala and telling him to get some supplies in town. Sam may have slipped, and Dean may have slipped right along with him, but the weight of the keys in the palm of Sam's hand were anything but heavy.

A case of beer and a bag of dinner fixings later, Sam was making his way back to the Impala when a blur of blue ran in front of him and he lost his balance trying to hang onto the groceries. Hang on he does, mostly, but his knees hit the concrete in a burst of pain that elicits a string of colorful language.

When Sam opens his eyes to assess the damage, the blue blur -- who's not so blurry anymore -- is standing in front of him. Dark brown pigtails and as solemn an expression as a six year-old could possibly wear greet him, as does an outstretched arm holding something shiny and also blue.

"Sorry," the little girl says as she offers Sam what turns out to be a square of Dove milk chocolate.

"That's okay," Sam replies, shaking his head and indicating she could keep her treat. But the girl looks like she's about to cry, so Sam goes ahead and accepts her offering. She smiles and skips away.

Sam's knees still sting, and one of the beers didn't survive the fall -- he can hear it fizzing and see it dripping out onto the concrete -- yet his mood lifts slightly, because it's not every day a cute girl gives him chocolate. He unwraps it and notices writing on the inside of the shiny paper. He reads it.

_Let chocolate warm your soul._

Sam's sudden bark of laughter nearly causes him to drop the groceries again. He shoves the wrapper in his pocket, puts the beer and food in the car -- minus the damaged can -- and heads back inside the store to buy a bag of chocolates.

 

*****

 

While Sam's been looking online for possible hunts, Dean's been taking out some of his issues on a few of Bobby's junkers. Bobby tells him they're not worth trying to save, but Dean shrugs and starts tearing them apart anyway. He spends hours in the yard looking for compatible parts that probably don't exist anymore, and then expresses his frustration by pretending to bang out fender dents.

Sam joins him when it's clear Dean's not coming in for dinner and brings him a beer and a sandwich. Amazingly enough, he doesn't find Dean tearing out the insides of an old Camaro, but sitting against one of its tires with his eyes closed. Sam sets the plate and bottle on the hood of the car and sits down next to Dean.

"You skipped lunch," Sam says.

"Your point?"

"Oh, I don't know. That you probably have low blood sugar? That it's probably dangerous for you to be messing around right now with anything mechanical? That you're hungry?"

Sam realizes his poor choice of words as soon as they're out of his mouth. He looks over at Dean, who's looking at him out of the corner of his eye but without a trace of emotion. Until he starts laughing. He laughs loud and slaps Sam hard on the knee -- which is still sore from his tumble on to the concrete yesterday -- and twists around, reaching for the beer and the food. He sets the plate on his lap and takes a long pull on the bottle.

Sam isn't entirely sure it's safe for him to relax, because Dean is very probably covering up an awkward moment with his laughter, but he does seem to be genuinely amused at the same time -- even if it's just at witnessing Sam with both of his big feet in his big mouth. So Sam allows himself his own small smile. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of chocolate, offers it to Dean.

"Nah. Maybe after my sandwich. Which is really good, by the way. Bobby made it, right?" Dean asks with an elbow to Sam's ribs.

Sam just ignores the jabs, verbal and physical, and unwraps the chocolate. It feels good, sitting here with Dean like this. Sam isn't always sure what Dean needs, but it's comfortable right now and that's gotta count for something.

Sam smoothes out the wrapper, reads the words printed on the inside as he raises the chocolate to his mouth.

_Be playful with your love._

Sam pops the square of chocolate into Dean's mouth before he can take another bite of sandwich.

 

*****

 

Bobby is pretty much a pro at wheeling himself around these days. He hasn't exactly made his house wheelchair-friendly, though, and there have been a few times in the last couple of days that Sam has heard the sound of dishes and books crashing to the ground as Bobby struggled to get to things that were a bit out of his reach.

The first time it happened in Sam's presence, he rushed over to help clean up the fall-out and had his toes run over for his consideration.

"I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself, thank you very much," Bobby had snapped.

Sam backed off.

But now, in the kitchen, Bobby is doing the dishes. He's leaning forward, arms over the sink basin, sleeves getting damp despite being rolled up. He's doing fine, actually. He has the dish soap close to the edge of the counter so he can squeeze it out onto the sponge when he needs more. The faucet has a single long handle rather than a knob for hot and a knob for cold, making it easier to reach. The problem, Sam notices, comes in the form of the dish rack. It's set right next to the sink, but it's still awkward for Bobby to reach up and over and set the dishes inside so that they angle properly. It's not a big deal, but Bobby's not going to be able to fit all the clean dishes inside if he keeps setting them in there haphazardly.

"Am I really that pretty to look at?" Bobby asks, never breaking his dish-washing stride. Sam hadn't realized he'd been staring.

"As a matter of fact," Sam says as he gets the bag of chocolate out of the cupboard, "I was thinking about asking you to the prom."

Bobby doesn't respond, but chucks a wet dish towel at Sam with amazing speed and accuracy. Sam laughs and drapes it over the oven door handle before unwrapping a piece of chocolate.

_You do not have to clean like your mother._

Sam has never really thought of Bobby as a father-figure, and certainly not a mother-figure, but ...

With chocolate melting on his tongue, Sam grabs a fresh dish towel from the cabinet under the sink and takes one of the wet plates from the dish rack. Bobby pauses for not even a millisecond, then keeps washing as Sam starts putting the newly dried dishes away.

 

*****

 

Sam's beat. He's more than ready and willing to collapse on the nearest flat surface and sleep until the Apocalypse is over. Yeah, if only.

Sam and Dean are leaving Bobby's come morning. There's a hunt in, of all places, Valentine, Nebraska. Probably a run-of-the-mill haunting, but two people have already died so it's worth their time. They've packed up the Impala and had a huge hit-the-road meal with Bobby and Castiel. The angel didn't eat, but he sniffed and touched the food like a picky toddler, making faces that Dean made fun of to Bobby and Sam's amusement.

Before heading upstairs to bed, where Dean and Bobby are already passed out, Sam decides to have one more beer. Not because he'll need the help sleeping, but because it's a peaceful night and he just feels like sitting on the porch and looking at the stars while he still has the chance. He's surprised to find Castiel already out there. Sam had thought he'd already left.

"Hey, Cas."

"Good evening, Sam," Cas says formally, as if they hadn't sat at the same dinner table just a couple of hours ago. He's leaning against the railing and looking up at the night sky.

"The stars are bright tonight," Sam says, feeling awkward. He likes Castiel, he really does, but he never quite knows what to say to him or, rather, _how_ to say it.

"Some appear brighter than others. Two factors determine the brightness of a star; luminosity and distance," Cas responds, and now he's looking directly at Sam, which is even more disconcerting than Sam's inability to have a normal conversation with an angel of the Lord.

Well, okay, maybe Sam will cut himself some slack on the "normal" conversation aspect.

Sam takes a long pull on his beer and leans against the rail next to Castiel.

"So, tomorrow, when Dean and I take off ... what are your plans?"

Sam is curious. Granted, there are only two likely choices: search for ways to help Dean and Sam avert the Apocalypse or search for his Father. Sam is able to admit to himself that what he's truly curious about is just how _does_ one go about searching for God? But he's not sure he can ask Cas that. At least Sam's dad left Dean his journal.

"I'm not sure. I'm ... deciding the best course of action," Cas answers. Then, as if he'd read Sam's mind -- and shouldn't he only do that to Dean? -- he goes on to ask, "Do you have any suggestions as to how I might best be of service to you and Dean?"

Sam has no idea how to answer. He sets the beer bottle down on top of the railing and sticks his hands in his pockets. Something small brushes against his fingers and he pulls out a forgotten piece of chocolate. Beer and chocolate don't exactly mix, but what the hell. He unwraps, eats, reads the wrapper. He hands it to Castiel.

Castiel scrunches his brow in confusion and looks up at Sam. "'Choose that gorgeous lip gloss?'" The look on Cas's face is priceless enough, but then Cas reaches up to actually touch his own lips--

Sam busts out laughing. Hard. When he's able to contain himself, Sam decides, he'll ask Cas if he wants to help out on that hunt in Nebraska.

 

*****

 

About fifty miles outside the town of Valentine, Nebraska, Sam unwraps the last piece of chocolate. He's tired, bruised, and just a little bit bloodied, thanks to one particularly angry ghost, and he could use the pick-me-up. There'd been three chocolates left, actually, but he'd handed the other two to Dean and Castiel, respectively, figuring they could use a pick-me-up too. Dean had practically swallowed his piece, with nary a look to the words printed inside the wrapper, which he tossed right back at Sam. Cas hasn't opened his yet. He's probably afraid that, in addition to lip gloss, he needs eyeliner.

But Sam has become rather fond of Mars, Inc.'s mostly nonsensical words of psuedo-wisdom. He has no idea what lies ahead, but even the most ridiculous of fates seems to go down easier with chocolate. Sam smiles as he reads.

_Drink champagne, wear the tiara, use the good china._

Sam pops the chocolate in his mouth, lets it melt on its own, and figures that beer, a knife sheath, and paper plates will do just fine.

 

**end**


End file.
